


Any Hope of Success is Fleeting

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Distress and Disarray [47]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Feelings, Kidnapping, M/M, Peril, Protectiveness, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 02:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20368801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Hamilton isn’t going to let a little failure stop him.





	Any Hope of Success is Fleeting

Hamilton’s stomach churns violently when he's thrown to the ground. Nausea surges so sharply he barely notices the bruising thud of impact as he hits the floor, or as his head knocks into the wall from extra momentum. It's all he can do to resist the physical imperative to heave.

Can he call himself the reigning champion of _not vomiting_ when his stomach is already empty?

Fuck it. He's counting the win.

Ensign Martin is shoved into the cell after him, and then the door slams shut, followed by the extra hum of a forcefield. No chances being taken this time, apparently. Hamilton makes a mental note not to touch the door. He curls in on himself, closing his eyes for a moment, pressing his forehead to the cool metal floor. Willing his guts to settle.

When he opens his eyes again, Martin is at his side, looking distinctly rattled but guiding him upright with steady hands.

"You don't look so good, sir," Martin observes.

Hamilton's only response is a dry snort as he eases back against the wall and takes in their new accommodations with an assessing eye. It's a tiny room compared to the previous enormous cell—which could be why only he and Ensign Martin are here. Or this could be an effort to keep difficult prisoners out of trouble, separating them so they can't coordinate another escape attempt.

If so, it's a practical strategy, and one that will effectively cramp Hamilton's style. Ensign Martin has proven a level-headed officer, but without Ensign Pitcher Hamilton has lost his best tactical advantage.

"Seriously, are you okay?" Martin peers into his face so earnestly Hamilton nearly flinches beneath the scrutiny.

"Calm down, you don't look so great either." None of his people do, though only one is currently in his line of sight. Martin looks pale and ragged, an almost ashy pallor to his skin.

"But—"

"Look," Hamilton interrupts, tone harsher than he intends. "Whatever they used to drug us was nasty enough, but being severely dehydrated doesn't help. You can stop staring like I'm about to keel over. This isn't going to kill me."

Not so soon as to inspire panic, anyway. He thinks wistfully of the water he didn't get to drink in their previous cell—bottles of it carried in along with nutritional rations—untouched, because of course Hamilton and his team used their first opportunity to make a break for it. A failure ultimately, but they had to try.

If he were less queasy, he might bemoan the uneaten food too. But in his current state, the idea of eating makes him shudder.

In any case, their captors still have to feed them eventually. Probably with more caution—the element of surprise is gone and the deck will be stacked even more viciously against escape now—but they won't be left to starve.

"Do you think your message got through?" Martin asks in a painfully hopeful tone.

"There's no way to be sure." Hamilton wishes he could provide a different answer. "Without a proper subspace access point, nothing is guaranteed. The message might have been contained within the security grid—it's not as though we had the tools to encode it properly." It's a testament to his exhaustion and discomfort that Hamilton finds himself offering such bleak candor.

There is every possibility Ensign Pitcher's signal got through. Just because they can't rely on it—can't wait around for rescue to come—doesn't mean they can't hope.

If Hamilton had any reserves left, he would make an effort to cheer the crestfallen look off Ensign Martin's face. As it is, he can barely keep his eyes open. The throbbing at his temple has worsened, rising to an intensity that threatens to smother the rest of his senses. His insides refuse to calm and his hands won't stop shaking—a fact he attempts to conceal by wrapping his arms around his middle. He doubts he’s successful at hiding the tremor, but at least Martin makes no outward sign of acknowledgment.

"What do we do now?" Martin asks in the same hesitant tone as before.

Hamilton blinks hard, struggling to remain conscious. He's in no condition to command an escape mission. He already failed once. Worse, his people might have evaded pursuit if not for him. Yes, every one of them—officer and civilian both—was compromised by thirst and hunger and whatever nasty mechanism knocked them unconscious in the first place. But Hamilton was the one stumbling so badly they needed to slow down and help him—a weakness that cost precious seconds—long enough to bring metallic guard drones down on their location.

His mind veers sideways, away from a clumsy burst of guilt and into questions he can't answer. Why were they taken in the first place? Has the diplomatic compound figured out they're missing? What's being done to find them?

How is Washington coping with his absence?

His general must certainly be worried, but beyond that Hamilton can't guess. Washington is a man of such overwhelming competence and control. Hamilton can easily picture him marshaling forces and leading an investigation. Searching for his missing people with smooth determination.

Or perhaps he’s carrying on like normal, forced to wait while others do the necessary legwork—a state of affairs that would certainly infuriate Washington, though only those who know him best would spot external proofs of frustration.

Hamilton doesn't like the idea of Washington worrying for him—he's never wanted to be a burden—and when he pictures Washington's face, his heart gives a lurch. He needs to find a way out of here. He needs to reach his general and bring everyone safely home.

If only he could fucking _stand_. That would be a start.

"_Sir_," Ensign Martin's voice cuts through his thoughts, and then there's a hand on Hamilton's shoulder, squeezing too hard and shaking him in a way that is not at all pleasant.

"_Stop_," Hamilton yelps as the spinning ache in his head intensifies. "What the hell—" He opens his eyes with difficulty.

He hadn’t intended to close them.

"You can't pass out on me." Martin's hand falls away. "I don't know what to do."

"Okay." Hamilton forces his breathing to slow. "Okay, I'm fine, we'll just… We can figure this out."

They have to. There is no acceptable alternative.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Queasy, Reign, Practical


End file.
